Ben[Life]

B. Bock

Speaking in form, along some proper line.

Will continue to speak and think aligned,

For this thinking, pacing, creating mine,

For this over buried, constructed mind.

In the days that progress to follow suit,

There will be no decided reason why,

Why this fallen mind will off to compute;

And why these doctors will say with a sigh,

“Oxygen, Nitrogen, Hydrogen here,

Some carbon together to tie it off.”

What they won’t realize, no matter how clear,

Inside is a soul, driven too far away.

It quietly sits, under people’s perceptions.

Faintly waits for some careless catalyst,

To set off the dormant lain timer.

We’ll see if this mind is one to be missed.

And although we won’t understand,

This spirit is drifting devoid of hope.

Too far from the vessel of conceivable sanity.

No one will think twice to throw it a rope.

And now to be forever lost,

With no one to sit at control.

Dissipated out into this empty sky,

With nonsense ever spewing from this soundless soul.

Is ever the proverb mistaken,

Misinterpreted along other senses?

It’s never thought so until

New words were revealed to the touch.

Sent along from the mouth to be felt,

And down to the head to be smelt.

Never has it not discovered another.

Ever will it sit. In singularity.